JAKE POINTED at the cell phone he held, then at Casey, then waved for her to come back. She gathered her things, disrupting the flow of the line and apologizing as she worked her way against the flow and ducked under the elastic rail. Jake kissed her cheek and hugged her excitedly.
“Why didn’t you answer your phone?” Jake asked.
“Too much,” Casey said. “I shut it off.”
“Where were you going?”
“Home.”
“And leave this lovely little town?”
“I got your message,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d get back. I need to put some distance between me and that place. I can still smell the urine from the woman in my cell. I think it’s on my clothes.”
Jake sniffed. “No. Come on. You can’t go. See what I’ve got. It’s going to take some doing, but we’re going to tie Graham in so tight with these mafia thugs that he’ll be the front-page story. Believe it or not, the FBI has an active investigation going on the guy.”
“I’d believe anything,” she said.
“Hi,” Marty said, appearing from behind them and extending a hand to Jake.
“Marty got fired,” Casey said. “He’s been great.”
“Your own uncle?” Jake said.
Marty shrugged. “He was an asshole, anyway.”
“I bet,” Jake said. “I saw you on TV at the DC airport.”
“My luggage,” Casey said.
“The TSA won’t leave with it if you’re not on the plane,” Jake said. “Don’t worry. Come on.”
They got Casey’s luggage back at the TSA bag check, then took the walk bridge to the garage while Jake told them about a mobster named Niko Todora, John Napoli’s patron, and a man who’d gone from the underworld to legitimate businessman.
“So, where to?” Casey asked.
“Buffalo,” Jake said. “I’ve got a list of all the names and companies. We’ve got to find the link to Graham. We’ve got to prove he’s tied in with these guys and they’re all trying to sink Patricia Rivers because of those gas leases. Once we do that, his whole story about you falls apart.”
“No sweat,” Casey said. “What’s your plan?”
“People,” Jake said. “They can’t help talking. We get a disgruntled employee or someone who got screwed on a deal and we drill down. There’s got to be a money trail somewhere. There always is.”
“Follow the money,” Casey said. “Great. I never heard that before.”
“I can help,” Marty said.
“Of course,” Jake said, stopping in back of his rental Cadillac to open the trunk and load Casey’s bags.
“I mean, I can really help,” Marty said. “To follow the money. I think.”
“How?” Casey asked.
Marty said, “When you’ve got money, you’ve got taxes, right?”
“Taxes and death,” Jake said.
“For some people,” Marty said.
“I remember that,” Casey said. “That’s how he introduced you and your firm, right? Something about a second set of eyes on some tax work?”
“I remember a company in Syracuse while I was clerking one summer,” Marty said. “They had this big office building with statues and fountains, some fiber-optic company. A hundred or so high-paid executives with a thousand people underneath them, but no one local did the legal work, or the accounting. They paid some firm in Connecticut twice the hourly rate they could have gotten around here. It drove the partners crazy.”
“And?” Casey asked.
“The whole thing was a Ponzi scheme,” Marty said. “The shares were worthless. The thing went belly-up. Everyone lost their jobs and when it was over, all the lawyers around said it was no wonder they didn’t use local lawyers or accountants. They didn’t want anyone to know what was really going on. Like Jake said, people talk.”
“And Graham had your law office do some tax work?” Jake said.
“Maybe because we’re a safe distance from Rochester and Buffalo,” Marty said.
“Where his partners are,” Casey said.
“To catch wind of his scheme,” Jake said.
“What scheme, though?” Marty asked.
“That’s what we have to find out,” Casey said.
“And those tax records might be the key,” Marty said.
“Where are they, Marty?” Jake asked.
“That’s a problem.”